


Recruit

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Substance Abuse, syringes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They come to him when there isn't any lower he can go. </p>
<p>A snippet of Agent York, before he earned that title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recruit

The young man has been sitting with the dead body for almost sixteen hours. He has been awake for the last forty five. He cannot remember the last time he ate. He might be able to if he puts his mind to it, but frankly, he's got more pressing issues to worry about. The young man sits with the dead body and two syringes, both of which are empty. There are small, purposeful scars on the body's left arm. They are all close together. It's easy to make the connection between the scars and the syringes. The young man realized it almost instantaneously. He's always been good at connections. The world, his world, is a series of patterns, of codes, of puzzles. The puzzle in front of him has two levels. The first is easy: the "how." He has seen it before. Overdose. A final rush of ecstasy, followed by the abyss. The human body can only take so much. 

His sister is lying in the street, unmoving, unthinking, because she has overdosed. The word is cold in his mind. Detached. It's easier to think of it as just the how. It's like a story, or even a scientific process. The end of a narrative. Nothing personal. That's not his sister anymore, anyway. 

He does not understand the "why." He can guess, he knows. But he'll never truly understand. The only person who can tell him is gone. He sits there with her, and imagines. It was probably about the money. Money, and survival. She had obligations to him and to his brother. She was charged with keeping them alive. 

Christopher sits with his sister and decides that obligations are stupid. He knows it's a childish thought, but that doesn't mean it isn't true. Look at her. Drowned in her own obligations and neurotoxins. 

It's another hour of sitting before he can think through the anger and confusion. He stopped crying ages ago, a function of running out of tears more than anything else. The pain is still there, though. Sharp and rusty, like the needles. Dirty. He realizes he'll have to get rid of the body somehow. Too bad there's no river to dump it in. Wouldn't that be romantic, he thinks to himself. Burial at the sea or some bullshit like that. Nobody writes poems about burials in the dumpster. What a damn shame. Maybe he'll start a trend. 

His brother hasn't come back. Christopher knows he never will. Their sister was the glue that held them together, after all. She told them they had to stick together. That the only way they were going to survive here, out on the streets, was by watching each other's backs. Mom and Dad sure as hell didn't do it for us, she'd say, and neither did the goddamn government. At least the politicians and the army had the common decency to evacuate them before they glassed the entire planet. His brother was about to leave him behind. He was too small, too young. Six years old, scrawny, and scared. 

He knows the only reason he's alive today is that his sister was good enough, brave enough, or stupid enough to try to raise him. He knows he owes her his life. He shouldn't have let this happen. It wasn't fair. Isn't. Not to her. 

The guilt hits him like a wave as he tries to decide what the fuck to do with the body. Dumpster burial it is. 

Christopher, he decides a week later, is the dumbest fucking name in the entire galaxy. Universe. Earth's colonial system. Whatever. He picks a new name every time he introduces himself. A new name for a new con. It's not the same guy robbing the grocery store every week. Of course not. Last week it was Taylor. The week before was Andrew. The week before that was Leslie. And so on. He makes a life without obligations, and he can almost call himself happy. Why shouldn't he be? He's got enough cash to buy his own coffee now. It's amazing. 

His location changes with his name. He likes it. He likes the variety. He even had a gang once, about a month after he found his sister's body. He didn't realize how much he missed talking to people until he had his own guys following him around. One of the guys got them all into trouble though, the fucking blabbermouth, and Christopher (though they all knew him as Riley) had to get out of there. 

Only place worse than the street is prison. 

He thought he hit rock bottom that sixteen-plus hour night. He thought that you don't get any lower than keeping your sister's vigil in a half-lit alley, where the shattered glass around you reflects nothing but poverty and grime, and the only smell is piss, except when it's garbage. He doesn't realize there are lower places than that, obligations or no. The same plague that took his sister is creeping on him. He hasn't learned. Christopher, is, as ever, oblivious. 

His life is now a series of stolen beers and bummed cigarettes and endless cups of bean-flavored water, gratuitously referred to as "coffee." Caffeine is an excellent substitute for real food, he's discovered. He's building up quite the tolerance. The twitching has stopped, for the most part. He's discovered he's attractive. There's been a lot of discovery lately, presumably for the better. Plenty of women will take him home after a few drinks and an expertly placed hand and wink, so long as he doesn't smell bad. But hey, that's why he breaks into the gym. Free showers, if you know where to look. The best part of a one night stand is the roof over your head. 

Sometimes he's with it enough to make-pretend romantic love. 

He is caught trying to rob a jewelry store. The way the light catches the gemstones bleeds money. Really, he thinks, he's doing the public a favor. No one should walk around wearing that on their neck. It's so gaudy, like someone looked at a string and thought 'hmm, how can I make this into an over-the-top status symbol?' He could think about the ethical ramifications of this piece of jewelry for hours, but right now, he needs to make some money so he can eat tonight. It's been a few days of nothing but straight coffee, and his hands are starting to twitch. (Ok, he'll admit, maybe starting is putting it a little lightly, but gimme a break, I've had other things on my mind lately.)

He really shouldn't have waited this long. He's working too fast. That's always been his weakness: not taking too long, but rushing. He doesn't believe in those bullshit sayings, the ones that go "the journey is sweeter than the destination." What are you going to do, kneel down and lick the road? He goes too fast. He misses something. 

He's almost out the door when the alarm goes off. The shop owner must have seen him run, must have gotten a picture and given it to the cops. Two days later, the cops show up at the shabby apartment he's living (squatting) in. Chez Chemical Dependency. They kick the door down, not like that means anything. It was already falling off the hinges, anyway. They back him into a corner. He panics. There are no windows in Chez Chemical Dependency. He runs his mouth because he can't do any other kind of running. "Hey officers, how you doing, you've got some great hair, you know that? What kind of gel do you use? That salon shit? Man, I've been looking for coupons for ages, but it's probably pretty obvious that I haven't found any, but hey. That's okay. It's what's on the inside that counts and speaking of inside, you're inside my house you're--"

He shuts up when they cuff him. They drag him to the car. It's the first time he's ever been in one, unless you count the evacuation. "So, this smell I'm smelling, it ain't that new car smell I've heard about, is it? Is the new car smell stronger? Can you really feel the scent of pleather or whatever the hell lines these seats all up in your nostrils? Seriously, man, I've gotta know." Okay, so maybe he doesn't shut up completely. He's still nervous enough to wet himself. He doesn't, though, which is probably the only thing that's gone right all day. 

"Son," starts the cop when they get back to the station or jail or wherever the hell they are. Christopher just stares back at the prick. He already hates the cop. "Son," the cop repeats, "I am here to tell you that the city already has enough lowbrow, shit-eating bums. You are nothing special. Nothing fancy. Which is why I don't give a damn about what happens to you." The cop slides a piece of paper towards him. 

"Son, it's your luck day. I can throw you in a nice, cold-ass cell for a few years or so, or you can do something useful for once in your miserable goddamn life."

Christopher just snorts and cocks his eyebrows. The asshole has no idea what he's talking about. 

"You can be cannon fodder for the UNSC. Serve your galaxy or some shit. Just sign the form. I don't care what you do, just get your sorry ass out of my life so I don't gotta deal with you any more." 

Christopher takes the paper and signs. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into, and he doesn't care. He knows that for the first time in his life, he's leaving this shithole, and that's good enough for him. The army gives you meals. The army gives you a gun. The army gives you built ladies. What more do you need?

The name he signed on the form was a false one. The man who approaches him weeks later, during basic, does not offer his name, either. Just gives him a title, and another offer. The man with nothing but a title says they've been watching him. Says they're impressed. Says he could help them do great things. When he tells Christopher they're looking for an infiltration specialist, Christopher laughs. 

"You're not looking for an infiltration specialist, man. What you're looking for is a thief." Christopher grins and shakes the other man's hand. "And you've got one."

They give him a suit of armor, a better gun, food, and even promise the built ladies. He has a sparkle in his eyes. They give him a false name too. 

New York. 

It's the name he keeps.


End file.
